


Silence & Noise

by incandescent (lmeden)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU, And Then Some, Gen, also I'm not a science person, because I might be a crazy person, fanfic for fanfic, gen - Freeform, in its own special way, in which I write about every character, kind of, sorry science
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:39:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/incandescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing they're sure of is that Tony Stark has been kidnapped by Loki. And they're all determined to bring him home. </p><p>This is a spin-off inspired by Scyllaya's wonderful Bend Around the Wind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EtchedShadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtchedShadow/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bend Around the Wind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/550896) by [Scyllaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scyllaya/pseuds/Scyllaya). 



> I started reading Bend Around the Wind about a month ago, which is a thrilling tale of Loki and Tony's adventures in deep space (my summary does it no justice, go check it out for yourself), and after daydreaming for a while, found myself attacked by the idea of everyone that Tony had left behind on Earth, and the effect that his disappearance would cause. I immediately drew up a long outline and spoke to Scyllaya, who graciously gave me permission to write this fanfic, which has been inspired by her fanfic. I'm not sure what to call it, really. Fan-fanfic? Fanfic-fic?
> 
> This is planned to have 9 chapters and an Epilogue. I've written only the first chapter so far, and wouldn't expect to update any sooner than two weeks from now. But I do have very detailed plans, so I know exactly where I'm going. Each chapter will have different characters, which explains that monstrous list up above. I'm writing my own idea of what happened when Tony left Earth, so this won't be 'canon' with Bend Around the Wind, I don't think. That said, I'm starting where Bend Around the Wind began, and this chapter contains some direct quotes from that fic (in italics). And I hope to end with Tony's return in the Epilogue, which I've been assured will happen soon. This is something for the in-between. 
> 
> And this story will be dedicted to my best friend, who introduced me to Bend Around the Wind, if she ever actually gets an AO3 account. (I hope you read this and do so _immediately_ , my dear.)
> 
> Okay, phew! That's all for now. Enjoy!

Pepper’s finger hovers over the Power Off button, her whole body tense, waiting for that minute movement. 

She wants to shut her phone down. She wants it so badly that she feels herself leaning into the idea, hunching over the slim device. It dictates her every waking moment with its constant stream of news from the networks and construction crews about the rebuilding of New York and the Tower, respectively; messages from associates, though most of them concern damaged offices and missing property, which Pepper couldn’t care less about at the moment; and the constant stream of inappropriate texts from Tony that never fails to cheer her up. She hasn’t turned it off for weeks, instead relying on a steady system of chargers placed in key points around the hospital to keep the device running and Pepper informed. 

It’s been _weeks_ since the attack, and she hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in all that time. The doctors keep telling her to rest, relax, and let her injuries heal, but she feels fine (except for the occasional twinge in her stomach that causes her breath to catch). Really. And it isn’t as if Stark Industries is going to run itself while she’s out on sick leave. 

Telling herself that the company (and perhaps New York itself) will _not_ disintegrate in a wild, flaming death spiral of truly epic and astounding proportions if she turns her phone off for the night, Pepper hits the Off button and turns to set her phone down on the small table beside her hospital bed. Her stomach clenches and the phone slips from her hand, falling that last inch onto the faux wood with a clatter. It vibrates, powering down, and she puts it out of her mind. She’s done. 

It’s… oh, it’s already two in the morning. How depressing. 

Pepper carefully lets herself lie back on the bed, and if her legs tremble and the wound on her stomach pulls as she stretches herself out, she doesn’t think too deeply about it. She grabs at the sheets. Aside from the sharp pains that slide through her in places too deep to touch, she aches _everywhere_ \- from the burn at the back of her head to the way her feet throb. She needs sleep. She needs more than rest, really; she needs a vacation. 

Eyes sliding closed, Pepper’s mind drifts to Tony. He’s probably lurking in the damaged upper level of Stark Tower as he does so often now. JARVIS has told her that he walks around the damaged apartments silently – thinking, presumably. She’d asked Tony once, and he said that the walking helped him think about all that they’d lost and everything they’d saved. She knows that he means her, how he’d almost lost her in the last attack. She touches her stomach.

Pepper realizes he’s probably also mourning the fact that he had to move into smaller apartments a few floors down and with a much worse view. 

She wishes he was here. She knows her dreams would be so much sweeter with him at her back, hot and grabby even in his sleep. She wants his warmth. 

Her thoughts drift apart and fade as she falls asleep, and Pepper doesn’t hear anything for a good long time. 

 

//

 

Thor trembles on the edge of sleep, unsure what has woken him. The feeling of wrongness shivers through the air, and he pushes himself up from his bed. 

His room looks just the same as it was when he laid his head down, save that the fire in the grate has burned itself out. He swings his feet off the bed and finds the floor cold. His hand flies to his cloak, draped over a chair, and he pulls it up and over his shoulders. 

Something is _wrong_.

Frowning, Thor walks toward his balcony. The spires of Asgard gleam, bright even in the darkness of the night, reflecting the light from a thousand candles. Laughter echoes, drifting up from below. He hears the murmur of conversation, but it is distant. The city is still and peaceful, otherwise. 

Something does not sit well with Thor. He turns, cloak snapping out behind him, and heads for Mjolnir. He reaches out, then pauses with his palm hovering over the handle. 

The magic in Mjolnir’s forging tugs at his grip, begging for his touch. Thor is used to the sensation, but tonight it is not the same. There is something else there – some other magic that teases at the edge of his senses. _That_ is what he has been feeling, Thor realizes. That is the wrongness that has plagued him. 

And Thor knows that there is only one source of magic in Asgard that could wake him so easily, pluck him from his dreams and send him pacing. 

Loki. 

Cursing, Thor grasps Mjolnir and summons his armor. It flies to him, obedient as always, and the buckles are still fastening themselves as he strides to the door. His cloak flies out behind him, and the chill against his skin serves as a brace for his emotions. 

His heart hammers, though whether from battlelust or apprehension, he does not know. 

What Thor does know is that Loki is no longer in Asgard (with such magic tainting the air, he _cannot_ still be in his cell). Thor must go to Heimdall, and quickly, before the terrible foreboding that curls in the pit of his stomach comes to fruition. He has never claimed to possess the gift of prophecy that the Norns so covet, but he knows one thing – when his brother’s magic teases him like it does tonight, Loki is up to mischief. 

Which is something Thor doesn’t enjoy half so much as he used to. 

 

//

 

Pepper wants to close her eyes and curl back under the covers, but sunlight is streaming in through the broad windows, and she knows it’s long past time that she should be up. The doctors refuse to wake her, otherwise she would be up and on her phone before the sun rises, keeping the company in check. She hopes that the staff hasn’t grown too used to lax hours. She’ll be back in the office any time now. 

Pepper smiles to herself and reaches out for her phone, sighing as she powers it on. She rises and stretches carefully, scrubbing at her eyes. 

As she reaches upward, Pepper is surprised to note that the pain inside her has lessened, unwound like a great knot sliced in half. She twists carefully, pleased at her own progress. Her phone finishes its primping and preening and finally boots up. It chirps at her, signally a message already in her inbox. 

Then it chirps again, and again. And again, until the sound fills the small room. Pepper snatches the phone, unease curdling her good mood, and turns the volume down. Something must have gone wrong.

Keying in her password, Pepper settles on the edge of the mattress and purses her lips, flicking through her phone’s services with mounting impatience. There is a single text from Rhodey, reading: _You shouldn’t hear this from a machine. Don’t check the news. Call me immediately_. The rest of the updates are missed calls – almost thirty of them, every one from Rhodey. 

Pepper’s fingers tremble as she swipes them across the phone, calling Rhodey with a single pass. It barely rings once before Rhodey picks up. 

“Pepper,” he breathes, soundly immensely relieved. 

“What’s happened?” she asks, her tone flat with tension and her fingers grasping harshly at the rail of the bed. 

“You haven’t heard?”

Pepper’s eyes narrow. “I just woke. And got your message. You said to call right away. What’s _wrong_?” The last words snap out, harsher than she’d intended. 

‘Tony’s gone,” Rhodey says. “JARVIS contacted us a few hours ago and informed us he’d been taken.”

“ _What?_ ” she fairly shouts, pulling the phone an inch from her mouth. She can almost feel Rhodey flinch on the other end, and savors it for an instant. “I need details,” she tells Rhodey, careful to rein in her tone. 

“Of course,” he responds with military precision. “JARVIS reported a burst of energy in Stark Tower to Tony at approximately oh-two-thirty this morning. Tony responded by going to investigate without his armor. Because of the energies at work – apparently magical in nature – the footage JARVIS was able to retrieve is spotty at best, but we were able to see that Loki was present in Stark Tower last night. JARVIS attempted to contact Tony for about ten minutes before calling us to report the disappearance.”

“JARVIS let Tony fight Loki _without his armor_?” She’s astonished at JARVIS’ failing, not Tony’s stupidity. That, it seems, is the only familiar thing about this situation. 

“Seems he couldn’t stop Tony,” Rhodey says, obviously as deeply displeased as Pepper, but with a few hours more to master the feeling. 

“Of course not.” Pepper glances around the small room and stands. Well, there’s nothing for it, now. She’s checking herself out. “What have you done?”

Rhodey sighs. “Not as much as we can, as of yet. With JARVIS’ help, we’ve been trying to trace the energy signature from the Tower, but it’s a challenge. JARVIS isn’t accustomed to working with magical energies, and the signature itself seems to have vanished completely. There’s not even a trace of it within the Tower.”

Pepper frowns, pausing in the process of pulling up her trousers, phone sandwiched between her shoulder and cheek. Something in her stomach has begun to throb. “That’s impossible. Energy is quantifiable. It always leaves something behind.” She’s learned that much from watching Tony work, if not the specifics. “Even if you can’t find a trace of it, it still must have caused a reaction. Has anything changed in the Tower? Anything been altered?” She’s throwing ideas out, hoping one will stick. Her brain feels as if it’s sifting sand through a sieve, every grain the same and equally useless, but she doesn’t know what else to do at the moment. 

She needs to get to the Tower and meet with the staff. 

There is silence at Rhodey’s end of the line. “Pepper, if you’re right about this reaction theory, anything in the Tower could have been changed. Do you know how long it would take to check everything in the entire _Tower_ thoroughly?”

“No,” she snaps. “And I don’t care. Take my idea or throw it out, but think about it first. If you can’t find this energy signature and trace it, then you need another idea.” She manages to get one arm into her blouse, but with her phone in such an awkward position, any further process in dressing will be impossible. “Look, Rhodey, I have to go. I’m heading into the office. I’ll call you soon.”

“Wait, Pepper—”

She cuts him off and shrugs her blouse over her shoulders. She does the buttons up as quickly as her shaking fingers will allow and tries to steady herself against the fact that Tony is gone. 

And that _Loki_ has him. 

 

//

 

“Ms. _Potts_.”

Anna seems surprised, and Pepper can’t blame her. She hadn’t called ahead to the office on the drive over, too busy putting on the makeup and stockings she’d asked Happy to bring over from her apartment. She feels only marginally presentable, but she is quite prepared to bluff her way through every interaction she has to until she settles back into the rhythm of work. The plan had been that she would be released from the hospital in another week, after all. 

It’s the surprise in Anna’s voice, the sheer disbelief she evinces as she watches Pepper step out of the elevator and walk past her desk, the stunned slackness of her features as she stands and almost stumbles, that tells Pepper that Rhodey hasn’t released the information of Tony’s disappearance. If he had, no one would be surprised to see her. 

Pepper nods to Anna as she reaches for her office door, the mostly-healed scar on her stomach pulling with the motion. She forces herself to slow down, treat herself more tenderly. 

“Ms. Potts, we weren’t expecting you –” Anna attempts, and Pepper turns to give her a sharp smile. 

“Of course not. Sit down, Anna, some business came up that only I can see to. For now, just act as if I’m not here. I’ll let you know if I need anything.” She pushes the office door open and steps inside, pivoting on her heel. 

“Can I get you something?” Anna asks, already around her desk and at Pepper’s door, hand halfway out to stop it closing. “Coffee? Tea? Breakfast? I’ll send for whatever you want.”

Oh, for an assistant that listens when she speaks. Pepper would do a lot to have Natalie back right now, no matter what strings come attached to her. 

“No,” Pepper snaps, and shoves the door shut. She touches the glass and the codes embedded in it activate, frosting it over and blocking out Anna’s startled expression. Pepper sighs. Really, she shouldn’t be so harsh with the girl. Anna is relatively new, hired three months ago after Loki’s attack on the city, when Pepper had been forced to recognize that she needed help if she was going to rebuild Stark Industries and New York both, as she wanted to. 

Tony would take care of the battles, but Pepper had a kingdom to rule. 

It was this very building from which Tony disappeared, Pepper realizes suddenly. Twenty-six stories above, where the shattered windows still let in every storm, in the living quarters to which only she, Tony, and JARVIS have access. 

The chair behind her desk beckons, and Pepper settles into it gratefully. The bullet wound in her stomach has begun to burn, though she knows it has long since sealed. 

“JARVIS,” she calls. 

“Yes, Ms. Potts,” JARVIS replies. “Would you like to see the footage from last night?”

Another question unworthy of asking. “Yes.”

Immediately, the lights in the room dim and a holographic projection flashes to life in the center of the room. Thankfully, it isn’t three-dimensional, as the viewpoint is from above, and such an illusion would only make Pepper dizzy. She watches Tony walk slowly through the upper floor of Stark Tower, the night outside the tower dark and cloudy, his expression grave and gaze thoughtful. This part of Tony wasn’t meant for Pepper to see. 

She leans forward and presses her elbows against the desk. 

A notification pops into the corner of the screen, and JARVIS’ voice echoes through the recording. _‘Sir, I detect an unusual energy signature in the Tower.’_

Tony, half-filled tumbler in his hand, glances up. _‘What sort of energy signature?_ The glass clinks as he sets it down. Pepper scowls at the past. 

_‘Unidentified, sir,_ JARVIS responds, and Pepper marvels. 

How could Tony be stupid as to look into something without knowing what is was? He could have sent for anyone, or just asked JARVIS to monitor the situation. But no, that wouldn’t be impulsive enough to suit Tony Stark. 

_‘…take a look, where?’_ Tony is saying, and Pepper wants to throw something right through the projection of his head. She purses her lips and laces her fingers together, refusing to give in to the temptation to shred and tear things apart. Not that there is anything on her desk to destroy, anyway.

“Why did you let him go?” Pepper asks, low.

“I could not stop him,” JARVIS responds, dropping the volume on the recording to let her hear his voice.

Pepper snarls up at the speaker in the ceiling, “Of course you could have! You can lock doors, you can unlock the safeguards around Tony’s suit. You could have called me! _I_ would have stopped him!” Her fists slam down onto the desk, and Pepper flinches. 

“I could not have stopped him, Ms. Potts. He would have overridden any delay I attempted, or possibly shut my system down if I’d pressed. I felt it was best to monitor and assist as able. You know how Tony feels about the Tower.”

Against all her wishes, JARVIS is right, as always. Tony had become very possessive of the Tower and his property since the last few attacks on it – especially the latest, which ended with Pepper in the hospital. Projecting an energy signature within the Tower itself would have disturbed Tony enough that she’s sure logical thought completely fled his mind. 

On the recording, Loki has appeared, his movements quicksilver and flashing. The recording sharpens and blurs alternately as magic surges, the Tower’s imaging systems obviously struggling to cope with the near-blinding flashes of light that come from spells, and perhaps weapons’ fire. Pepper spies Tony near the door of the bedroom, fighting to get out – away from Loki and the hunched, snarling alien figures that have followed the god into the room. 

If he’d had his suit, Tony might have had a chance. 

Loki launches one of the aliens at Tony, and it lands hard at his feet. Pepper watches Tony fight, dropping low into a sparring stance, but the creature is not human, and moves with joints that a human has never possessed. Within a moment, it has Tony down. Pepper glances to Loki, and is surprised to see that he, too, is in the grasp of the aliens. 

Tony speaks, then, and Pepper, leans forward, struggling to catch the words. They’re low, garbled by the damaged data of the file. “JARVIS, go back,” she says. “I want to know what Tony said.”

JARVIS shifts the recording back a few seconds, pulling the audio out and enhancing it in another window. The harsh gasp of Tony’s breathing comes across clearly, as well as two words - _god_ and _take_. The rest is obscured by static and a strange, nearly inaudible screech. 

Pepper frowns and opens her mouth. 

“That is all that I have been able to get from the audio, Ms. Potts,” JARVIS says, forestalling her words. “Tony’s mouth is blocked in the recording, so I am unable to utilize visual clues. The magical energies in the room have prevented my equipment from functioning as it should.”

JARVIS sounds so aggrieved that Pepper wants to comfort him. But she doesn’t quite have the energy for it. The alien that holds Tony in the recording draws back its arm, then hits Tony hard, sending his head snapping back. His body falls. 

“Turn it off,” Pepper says. 

The room promptly falls dark, and then the lights rise up to normal once more. 

“I apologize,” JARVIS says. “I should have—”

“Call Rhodey,” Pepper says. 

JARVIS’ voice shuts off, and a small screen pops up for the call. Pepper listens to the ringing and watches the little dancing telephone graphic that Tony had thought was a cute idea prance across the screen. 

Rhodey’s face flashes up and Pepper straightens in her seat. 

“Any news?” Pepper asks. 

Rhodey grimaces, leaning toward the camera he’s using. “No change.”

He looks like hell, Pepper notes. As if he hasn’t slept for weeks, rather than just the night before. But Pepper supposes that loosing a best friend can do that to you. Or a lover. She wonders if she looks as terrible. 

“Have you looked into the effect of magic upon the Tower? I had JARVIS show me the footage from last night, and it seems like the bedroom took the brunt of the battle. Do you have people there now?”

Rhodey’s scowl is legendary. _Do you take me for an idiot?_ it clearly asks. “Yes,” he bites out. “The entire room is burnt half to hell, and a complete mess besides. The mirror that Loki used to get into the Tower has nearly melted off the wall. We’re working through it as quickly as we can, but we won’t finish it today. We have to focus on other avenues at the moment. For now, we are looking at JARVIS’ data and trying to trace Tony through that.”

Pepper bites back her sigh. “No progress, then.”

“No. I will contact you as soon as I have something.”

“Anything,” Pepper corrects. 

Rhodey nods, obviously teetering on his personal tightrope of patience, and the call ends, screen flashing black. 

Pepper sits for a long moment, silence taking over the room. She doesn’t want to speak to JARVIS, or Rhodey, or Anna. She wants Tony. But she can’t have what she wants. She should have learned that by now.

 

//

 

She doesn’t talk to JARVIS all morning except to issue a few commands, which he grants her with alacrity. His silence, when she’s grown used to comments and tips over the years, is anything but comforting. 

She does find it easy to sink into her work for the company, despite weeks of absence. The graphs and spreadsheets mapping company performance spring up at her command, filling the air. She sorts through them easily, shifting them in the space of her office as she reads each one – closed reports here, open ones there. Then she looks closer. Stark Industries has _managed_ without her – or, with her in a limited capacity, as she’s been attempting to do what she can over the phone for some time now – but only just. She hasn’t had access to this kind of information over the phone. Now she can see the details, parse what’s troubling the company. And she doesn’t even want to begin to consider what will happen if the world learns that Tony is missing. Just the thought of the stocks alone. 

Pepper checks the time. It’s been hours since she walked into the office, and she’s been so engrossed that she lost track of the time. She waves the diagrams away and the lights come up. She taps the door and it unfrosts, revealing the hall beyond, and opens under her touch. Pepper gathers herself and steps out. 

“Anna,” she says, and the girl pops up from her desk. The smile she gives Pepper is cool. 

“Ms. Potts. How can I help you?”

“Lunch,” Pepper says. “Get me something from downstairs – something simple.”

“A sandwich?” Anna offers, and Pepper nods. 

“That’ll be fine. I’ll also need you to set up a press conference for tomorrow morning.” 

The girl turns back to her desk and jots down a small note on paper, dark hair falling across her face. “Will ten be a good time?” she asks. 

“Better make it at nine,” Pepper says. That should weed out any reporters unwilling to make the effort to get up and get ready. “Call Jonathan Akale and tell him to stop by within the next few hours. Oh, and Anna?” she calls, catching the girl as she turns away. Anna looks back over her shoulder. “Send in the latest production figures after you’ve eaten.”

Anna nods, and her gaze softens somewhat. “I’ll be right back with your sandwich,” she says, and walks away. 

Pepper heads back to her office and doesn’t bother to close the door. She settles slowly into her chair, her stomach in knots with a combination of hunger and simple pain. The sensation is beginning to eat away at the edge of her senses, and she blinks fast to try and force it away. 

“JARVIS, call Rhodey,” she calls, and the screen rises again from the surface of the desk. Rhodey picks up after a single ring. 

He looks miserable, understandably.

“Any news?” Pepper asks. 

“I would have called you,” Rhodey snaps, then sighs. “Sorry, I just…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Pepper says. “I understand.”

She reaches up, ready to run her fingers through her hair, then forces her hand down. She still has half the workday left, and she refuses to destroy her hair before it’s over. 

“What have you looked at?” she asks, watching Rhodey’s jaw tense. Undoubtedly, he doesn’t want to have to tell her this, and would rather be working on finding Tony. But she knows that he has others on the task, and she has to know. 

They can’t keep up like this. This is the kind of secret that could destroy everything. Pepper refuses to let that happen. 

 

//

 

“Jon,” Pepper says warmly, rising from her desk. She reached out to grasp the man’s hand, and he smiles back at her. 

“Ms. Potts,” he practically purrs, his smile flashing pale in his dark face. “It’s wonderful to see you again.” His voice is deep, and his chest broad. Pepper always thinks, vaguely, that he should be the one giving speeches, rather than writing them. “What dreams can I spin for you today?” He sits and leans back, his chair squeaking in protest, and balances his tablet on his knee. 

Pepper’s smile thins. “I’m afraid,” she begins, “that Mr. Stark is unable to attend work at the moment.”

“Hard night, then?” Jon has certainly written enough speeches explaining away Tony’s bad behavior before. He’s going to run out of excuses one of these days. 

“Not as such.” Pepper laces her fingers together and rests her hands on the top of the desk. “He won’t be back for a while. It’s a rather… debilitating condition he’s in at the moment.”

Jon’s brow furrows. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He taps the tablet speculatively. “Can you give me any more details?”

“Not just yet,” Pepper responds. It churns her stomach to tell these lies, to dance around the truth, the idea that Tony is gone and might be gone _forever_.

“All right,” Jon says, leaning over his tablet. Pepper has always admired his ability to leap straight into work with very little instruction or guidance. It’s a valuable skill, which he wouldn’t have survived working for Tony without. “Stark is gone indefinitely,” he muses. “I’m sure the reason is scandalous, which the press will know before we even tell them. You have a press conference scheduled?”

“Tomorrow morning, at nine.”

“Well.” 

It isn’t merely that he’ll have to work fast. It’s that something big has happened, something which can’t be held back from the stockholders and public. Something big enough that Pepper can’t tell him the truth, and wants him to write an official lie for the press corps to publish. Pepper imagines he’s running through the possible explanations in his mind. 

She doubts he’ll consider kidnapping. 

“The best explanation is going to be illness.” His fingers flick across the screen, shifting words and sketching out ideas as his gaze moves between her and his device. “It will give you the flexibility to have a quick cure, when Tony gets back from his jaunt, and will also lend his disappearance some weight. I imagine the stocks will still suffer, but sympathy will keep them up. Unlike the truth, whatever it is.”

Pepper nods. News of the kidnapping might destroy Stark Industries. 

“I’ll need something short,” she says. “To the point, and above all, believable. Can you get that to me by tomorrow at eight?”

Jon’s lips spread, then burst into a smile. “You doubt me?” His chair squeals as he shifts forward and rolls to his feet, Pepper belatedly following. “I will have your words to you by seven. Six, even!”

Pepper allows herself to smile and reaches out to take his hand. Jonathan is always a pleasure to talk with, even when the times are anything but good. 

“Not too early, though. I’ll need my beauty rest to face the reporters.”

His laughter follows him out of the building. 

 

//

 

“Miss Potts.”

It takes Pepper a good moment to wrench herself away from the logistics that she’s been looking over, god forbid anyone do anything right the first time. 

“You have a call from Colonel Rhodes.”

JARVIS’ words rock through her and her head snaps up. “Well?” she demands. “Put him through.”

The screen flashes to life above her desk, flickering for just an instant before resolving into Rhodey’s face. Pepper knows immediately that it’s bad. She feels her expression tighten. 

Rhodey shakes his head. “No news, Pepper, I’m sorry.” 

He sounds so exhausted that, for a moment, Pepper is inclined to pity him. But she can’t; she has to save her emotions for easier times. 

“Why did you call, then?”

He sighs. “I thought you’d like to know we’re bringing in SHIELD.”

“You want Fury on this?” she asks incredulously.

“We don’t have any other option. My men and I have done our best, but as a division of the government, we only have so many resources. Fury has more experience with this kind of… magical occurrence. He may have experts. And he certainly has more resources, or can get more.”

Both he and Pepper know how Director Fury gains resources – by threatening, betraying, and seducing. The man wouldn’t know how to ask for something if he tried. 

“And there’s nothing else you can do?” she asks, frowning. 

“Don’t you trust me, Pepper? I’ve tried _everything_.”

It’s been years since Pepper flinched. She isn’t about to do so now. “Fine. Call Fury. And inform him that I’ve called a press conference for tomorrow at nine.”

Rhodey immediately sits straighter, faint threads of alarm snaking across his face. “You’re going to tell the press?”

“Not the truth. Just that Tony’s gone for now. They’re going to notice that something is wrong soon, what with Tony vanishing completely. We need an excuse. I have Jon writing the speech.” 

Rhodey nods. “All right.” He scrubs a hand across his face. “Okay. I’ll call Fury. But, Pepper?”

She hesitates, having lifted a hand to close down the call. Just looking at Rhodey is exhausting, right now. “Hm?”

“Don’t give up on him yet.”

The call flickers and ends, and Pepper stares, breathless with the sudden rage that flares up inside her, growing into an inferno that nearly carries her away. She feels her lips curl with rage and almost spits. Her hand slams, palm down, onto her desk, and she wishes this was her mother’s desk, which she only barely remembers from childhood, with its piles of papers and crowded clutter of tools and odd bits of things picked up off the floor, because all Pepper wants at the moment is to scream, to reach out and fling something from the desk, send the entire thing crumbling to the floor like the world seems to be doing around her ears. 

But those desks are things of the past, and Pepper’s work is virtual, the surface in front of her is empty and clean, unblemished by the guilty spectre of a single printed page. 

So her fingers curl, nails digging into her palms, and she swallows her fury. 

 

//

 

It’s night, and instead of returning to her own bed for the first time since she was shot, Pepper will be sleeping in one of the many immaculate guest rooms that the Tower can lay claim to. 

The thought sits wrong in her, so she skips her floor and rides the elevator to the very top. When she steps out, there is an unfamiliar guard by the doors, dressed in a military uniform. He pivots sharply to face Pepper. 

“I’m sorry ma’am, but entrance to this floor is currently forbidden by order of Colonel Rhodes.”

Pepper nods. “Has everyone else gone home for the night?”

She watches the guard struggle with himself, debating whether what he knows is too sensitive to voice or not. “No,” he finally says. “They have moved to another location to continue investigating—”

His teeth click as he cut himself off and swallows. Despite everything, this brings a smile to Pepper’s lips. 

“My name is Virginia Potts, CEO of Stark Industries. You don’t have to worry about keeping secrets from me, soldier.”

Her smile sticks as she moves past him and towards the bedroom, but by the time she reaches the closed door, it has faded to nothing. She allows herself a brief second, then keys the door open, stepping into her and Tony’s bedroom. It slides shut behind her, nearly silent. 

The room is _wrong_. Everything personal has been stripped from it, taken by Rhodey’s men for ‘investigation’, if it wasn’t already destroyed by Loki last night. All that remains is the frame of the bed, the shards of broken windows that glint with the light of the city below, the scorch marks upon every wall and the ceiling, and the mirror. _That_ , of all things, Pepper had thought that they would take. 

Perhaps they couldn’t. It’s destroyed, melted half out of its frame, bulging and thick in some places and thin enough in others to see the wall behind it. It’s become part of the Tower, now. 

Her reflection is distorted and warped. Pepper stares into the mirror for a long time before her legs give out and she sinks to the floor. She wants to be sick, to cry, to force this tightness out of her. But all she feels is her voice seizing up inside her chest and she reaches up to clutch at her hair, shove the pins out of it and pulls the curls undone. It falls around her shoulders and shields her face. She pushes at her eyes, harsh breaths lost in the sound of the wind howling around the Tower, and knows that her makeup is smearing. 

She looks into the mirror once more, and feels pain pierce her heart like a dagger. There is nothing left, nothing for her to do. 

With a thud, her fists slam into the floor and send jolting pain up to her shoulders. Her stomach screams. Shuddering, she forces her eyes closed, and tries to scream with it. 

Nothing. Nothing at all but silence. 

 

//

 

“I cannot.”

“How not?” Thor cries, his voice rising with his incredulity. “You are All-Seeing. All-Knowing! How can you not grant me passage to where Loki has gone, so that I might fetch him back here where he belongs?”

Hemidall’s golden gaze is hard. In it, Thor sees his own absence, sees the fact that he never once visited Loki in his cell beneath the mountain of Asgard.

“Does he belong here?” There is a lilt in Heimdall’s voice that suggests mockery. Thor steels himself against it. 

“You dare to suggest that Asgard is not Loki’s home? He was raised here, grew up here.” He swallows and tries to keep the feeling from pouring out, unorganized and confused. “He is my brother.” The assertion feels weak after all this time, after Loki’s denials. Yet Thor can’t help but feel its truth. 

Hemidall nods slowly and turns his gaze back to the abyss beyond the near-repaired Bifrost. Stars shine in the distance. 

“It gladdens me to hear that,” he says. “I would aid you if I could. Yet my orders were clear. You are not to follow Loki.”

All Thor’s training cannot counteract the sinking feeling that worms its way through him. “Orders? From whom?”

Heimdall’s gaze glints with humor. “Who else gives orders to I, the Golden One? Your father, of course.” He plants his staff on the end of the bridge, toes working close to the edge. “Odin.”

Thor’s hand works around Mjolnir’s shaft. Tighter, and tighter. 

 

//

 

“Father!” Thor cries, shoving the doors open and striding into his parents’ bedchambers. His mother turns, the folds of her dress sweeping around her, and blinks at Thor in surprise. 

Odin is unfazed. He leans back in his seat and says, “What can I do for you, so early this fine day?”

“It’s Loki,” Thor says. “He’s gone.”

Odin’s face does not change. “Heimdall has informed me of this.” He exchanges an incomprehensible glance with Frigga. “I have sent the Valkyries for Loki. They’ll return him to his cell. And I shall see about improving the seidr that keeps him locked away.”

Thor’s sudden fear is as fierce as a draugr attack. “The shieldmaidens will kill him! You cannot send the _Valkyries_ for Loki.”

“And what would you suggest I do?” Odin inquires. “Send you instead? If I do so, I doubt Loki will come back at all.”

Thor’s entire body stiffens, ready for battle. “I brought Loki home scant weeks ago.”

“Indeed. _After_ he had destroyed half a major Midgardian city and tried to kill you several times. Thor, you were not exactly successful. I have ordered the Valkyries to bring Loki back _alive_. They will not defy me.” _Unlike others_ , his tone implies. 

Thor scowls. “Those ladies may be formidable warriors, but even their blades might slip.” Feeling that his words are wasted, he turns, his cloak billowing around him, and strides from the room. 

He must work at this problem himself. Loki has vanished. He can’t imagine _how_ Loki escaped from his cell, which even Father had vouched for. That does not matter, though. Who knows what he might do in revenge for being bound and gagged? He had hated Father before, for a deception that even Thor would bridle at. And Thor has never understood why Loki hates him. But now, after all the indignities that have been visited upon Loki, Thor fears that he may be mad with hatred and distrust. He may do anything. 

Thor _must_ stop him. He hand falls to Mjolnir’s handle and stays there. 

“Thor.”

He whirls, but it is only his mother. She pulls the doors of her and Odin’s rooms shut behind her, and moves down the hall toward Thor. 

“Walk with me, my son.”

Thor nods and follows as Frigga leads him through the halls of the palace. Eventually they step outside, into the verdant gardens. 

“Mother,” Thor begins, “I must—”

“Listen to me for a moment, Thor. I know that it is difficult for you to remain still, but you must hear what I have to say.” She casts a small smile over her shoulder towards him and steps into the shade of an apple tree. The gnarled branches twist around her, obscuring her silhouette. Thor ducks down to follow her. 

“Heimdall sent a messenger to your father and I late last night to inform us of Loki’s disappearance. Odin felt the magical disturbance in the fabric of this world just moments before Heimdall’s messenger arrived. It woke us both.” She turns and looks up into Thor’s face, searching. “That magic was not only Loki’s own. He had assistance in slipping the bonds your father laid upon him.”

Asgard’s enemies are uniting, then. “The Valkyries will only fight harder, then. Mother, I fear that they will return with Loki’s body, and none here will mourn his passing.”

Frigga’s eyes flash. “I will mourn your brother. And so shall your father, no matter what Loki has done. Which is why I will not confine you to Asgard to wait this battle out.”

Thor’s frown is startled. “What—”

“You must find your brother,” Frigga says, and lays a gentle hand on his breastplate. “Find him, and bring him home. Before your father’s shieldmaidens take him to Valhalla.”

She is fierce, and not for the first time, Thor is proud that she is _his_ mother. Thor straightens and smacks his head on a branch. Scowling he backs out from under it. “I shall do as you say,” he says. “But I cannot follow Loki in his way of travelling. He is learned in seidr, and I do not know where to begin searching.”

She lifts a cascade of leaves from her face with the back of her hand, and smiles. “We shall go to Heimdall, then, and discover where Loki has gone. If I walk with you, the gatekeeper will let you pass.”

“You would do that for me?” Thor shivers with hope. He knows that Odin will be displeased that they have defied his orders – more than displeased, probably; Thor doesn’t look forward to returning to Asgard after this is over. 

“No,” she says, stepping away from Thor. “I do this for Loki.”

 

//

 

“Where has Loki gone?” Thor demands as they approach Heimdall. 

The gatekeeper turns, his gaze imperious and unbending, and though Thor is no longer terrified of it as he once had been, he fights to keep his pace. 

“I have already informed you of my orders.”

“Good Heimdall,” Frigga says, gliding across the shining surface of the Bifrost and past Thor. “Your orders are as of yet incomplete. I know that my husband told you this: ‘Let not Thor by you, only those who are named Valkyries, to search for my youngest’.” 

Thor’s breath catches, his mind latching onto a single phrase – ‘my youngest’. Odin still lays claim to Loki, still calls him son. It is a strange feeling of terror and regret that sweeps through him. 

What can he do to mend this rift? How can he save Loki and make everything well again, now that he has hope?

Frigga has stepped close to Heimdall, enough so that the hem of her gown slips over the shattered edge of the Bifrost. “What would you say, were I to give Thor the emblem of the Valkyries?” She lifts her hand to press against the neckline of her dress. Thor follows the gesture, then searches for her eyes. She does not look away from Heimdall. 

The great man regards her for a long moment. “That would be quite the dilemma. If Thor is given, even nominally, the status of Valkyrie, then I would have to let him pass. Yet I have been told very precisely to keep Thor back. What, then, would I do?”

Frigga smiles. “I shall solve your puzzle, then. Thor, come here.” She turns, beckoning, and Thor releases his grip on Mjolnir, his entire body stiff as he steps forward. She is brilliant and cunning. At least half of Loki’s cleverness must have come from her. 

She reaches under the fabric of her collar and lifts something out, cupped in her palm. “Now, Thor,” she whispers, and he leans close to hear. “Look.” She lifts her hands and opens them slightly, and something glints. Thor blinks, and it’s gone. She pats her neckline and turns away, and something itches at the corner of Thor’s eyes. He reaches up to push it away, but there is nothing there. He can see perfectly fine, except for the way his eyes feel. What did she do? He spies a thin chain still hung around the back of her neck, and knows that she gave him nothing to hold. Is this seidr?

“Here are my orders,” Frigga says, turning back to Heimdall. “You will let Thor pass to search for Loki. And you will tell him where to go.”

Heimdall smiles, and it is not a friendly expression. “Indeed, my Queen.” 

Thor moves forward. “You’ll tell me where to find Loki? And send me there? What about Father?”

“It would not be wise to mention Odin before me again,” Heimdall says. Thor flushes. “I will send you where Loki has gone, though it will not please you. Are you ready?”

Thor’s stride brings him to the edge, balanced next to Heimdall. The abyss tugs at him, and Thor thinks of his brother. “Yes,” he says. 

“Loki is on Midgard.”

 

//

 

The others brush against Pepper as she passes by, the crowd parting around her, but not quite far enough. Pepper can see that they want to ask questions, but she’s the one who called this press conference, after all, and they know better than to speak before it’s begun. She moves toward the podium and steps up, waiting for silence. 

It comes slowly, giving Pepper time to look over the speech Jon has written for her. It’s beautiful; she can see this even at a glance. She isn’t going to use it, though. She’ll have to take him out for a drink to apologize. 

The quiet is expectant, so Pepper looks up at the journalists assessing her. 

This time, she’s going to follow Tony’s lead. 

“We all know and love Tony Stark,” she says. “Some of you may consider ‘love’ to be a strong word, but we all remember the events of the past few months, which have included attacks on the City of New York and Stark Industries both, and have hit especially close to home.” She carefully doesn’t touch her side where the bullet went in. 

“As Iron Man, Mr. Stark has saved both the city, and our lives.” 

The crowd shifts. 

“We owe him our gratitude and loyalty, and maybe one day we can give that to him.” She pauses, takes a deep breath. “I called this press conference for a much more dire reason. Early yesterday morning, Tony Stark was kidnapped from his apartments within Stark Tower.” 

The crowd bursts into cacophonous confusion. 

Pepper raises her voice to be heard, and realizes as she speaks that JARVIS is tinkering with the microphone to aid her. “We have solid intelligence as to who has taken him, but as of yet, no further leads. We must all believe that Tony will fight his way back to us. Right now, he is gone.”

The reporters have surged to their feet and are calling out questions. Some have hands raised, knowing that Pepper won’t talk to them without that basic pretense of courtesy. 

Pepper prepares herself, then hesitates, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. Something is strange, wrong. The image of Tony flashes through her mind, battling against Loki, fighting his way back to her. Stark Tower vibrates, shuddering under an enormous impact of light and sound that arcs around the building. Pepper falls into a crouch, arms wrapped around her middle to shield herself. Through the windows, she can see what appears to be twined bolts of lightning coursing around the exterior, dancing so bright that she closes her eyes, turning away. 

Then, silence. 

She opens her eyes and sees that the power is out, and the reporters are slowly rising to her feet. She opens her mouth to call for JARVIS, then realizes he’ll be down, along with the grid. They’re helpless. 

She wonders if this is how Tony felt, and clutches her hands into fists. 

 

//

 

The Bifrost retreats suddenly, leaving Thor perched on the pinnacle of a great building, one which he recognizes after a moment as Tony Stark’s abode. He raises Mjolnir, ready for an attack from Loki, yet nothing comes. He shifts, wary, and by some insight (from whence it comes, he knows not, though perhaps it has something to do with the gleam that has affixed itself in the corner of his eye) knows that there is no magic here. 

Loki is gone. As if he never existed.


	2. Around the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, with another chapter. Finally. I’m sorry this took so long, and that I’m such a slow writer. I’d plead RL as an excuse, but even though lots has been happening, this is about my normal writing speed. So maybe I actually wrote this chapter quickly. Yay! I want to thank everyone who took a chance in reading this story and gave me kudos on the first chapter. It means a lot. And again, thank you to Scyllaya for letting me run with my inspiration and write this. With each chapter she posts, I’m more inspired. And a great an ENORMOUS thank you to my beta, Eustacia Vye28. She's been lovely with helping me through this so far, and I'm hoping she'll stick around until the end. :)
> 
> Two new characters this chapter: Clint and Natasha. I plan to write two different characters for each chapter, and my grand plan will reveal itself as I write more. I hope you enjoy this!

//

 

Natasha takes the call from Fury on a rooftop three blocks south and four east from her apartment, for obvious reasons. She would have liked to have moved farther from her personal residence, but she’d had only a few moments warning. 

“Stark has been taken,” Fury says, and Natasha goes very still, the shifting of her hair in the warm evening wind that only thing about her that moves. 

“By who?”

“Loki,” Fury grinds out, short syllables barely recognizable through the hatred in his tone. It’s no particular attachment to Tony that causes him to speak that way, Natasha knows, but merely the sense of loss and betrayal that comes from having something taken away that was _his_. “Potts didn’t even have the courtesy to call me, just dropped that on us by press conference.”

Natasha pauses for a second to consider her next words: “What do you want me to do? I don’t have the resources Loki can access, and I presume you don’t have him locked in a cell downtown.”

“Don’t be funny with me,” Fury snaps. “Rhodes has been on this all day, searching for Stark in every way he could think of before informing me. We’re lucky he isn’t a very creative man.” He pauses to catch his breath, presumably having lost it in his… fury. Natasha smiles to herself. “I need you to get in touch with your contacts underground. All of them. If Loki’s still recovering from the battle three months ago, let alone whatever they did to him in Asgard, he might have stayed on Earth. If he’s here, I want to know it. I want to know what he eats for breakfast, what movies he watches, and _where he put Stark_.”

This is a special kind of anger, in Natasha’s experience reserved only for stupidity. She knows that it can’t be aimed at her. Fury knows better than that. 

“Barton?” she questions. Her tone is just this side of snide, and she knows it. Sometimes, Fury just deserves needling. “He has at least as many resources as me.”

Fury sighs noisily. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll have his own task, once I get a hold of him. You wouldn’t happen to know where he’s located, would you?”

Natasha doesn’t dare to smile at the rank suspicion in Fury’s tone. He might be watching her now, for all she knows. “I haven’t seen Barton in days. Why? Have you lost your hawk, Director?”

“No,” Fury snaps. “Find Stark.”

Natasha ends the call before Fury can. She pauses with it in her palm, her contacts list gleaming on the screen. She doesn’t have many names in there – or, she does, but half of them are either Clint’s aliases or her own, and don’t count. There’s one that she hasn’t called for a long time, but hasn’t deleted either: Pepper Potts. 

Natasha wonders why she’s kept the number. Potts obviously wants nothing to do with her. Now would be a good time to call, she thinks, when Potts is in need of support. Natasha is under the impression that that’s what friends are supposed to do – help each other.

With a sharp shake of her head, Natasha shoves her cell into the pocket of her sweats. She reaches up, stretching first to one side, then the other. Time to head home, and fast. She has the feeling that Tony’s disappearance is only the beginning.

Again.

 

//

 

Clint has his feet on Natasha’s coffee table and a bottle of Natasha’s water in his hand. He’s frowning at it when she walks in the door and flicks the locks closed behind her. 

“Why don’t you ever have anything stronger than this?” he mourns without looking up.

“Because I would like to live to a ripe old age,” she rejoins, and Clint laughs at her as she walks through into the bedroom and begins yanking open drawers. She throws clothing onto the bed haphazardly, pulling one or two pieces for various kinds of weather. She can always buy what she doesn’t have, but it’s best to be prepared. 

She pulls the wooden case with her guns from underneath a stack of books she’s never quite gotten to reading and tosses it onto the bed as well. Is that bad luck – guns on the bed? It seems like it should be, but she isn’t sure, so she leaves it. 

“Mission?” Clint asks, leaning against the doorframe, not even attempting a proper sentence. 

Natasha straightens and steps towards him, then pauses. No better way than the direct, in her opinion. “Loki’s back.”

Clint ices over in the blink of an eye, his inquiring smile freezing and his body stiffening until Natasha is sure he’ll shatter. “What?”

“That’s all I know,” she says. “Fury just called, and I’m to scout my contacts to see if he’s taken shelter on Earth.”

Clint’s narrowed eyes watch her begin to fold clothes tightly and slip them into her carry-on. “Why would Loki be on Earth?”

He’s hard to read, like this. Though Clint seems careless most of the time, and lies around her apartment as if his profession is extreme laziness instead of international espionage, when his walls go up he becomes something completely different. Still, Natasha knows him. She can see the glimmer of anxiousness in the corners of his eyes. 

“I don’t know. In my opinion, Loki wouldn’t stay on this planet any longer than he has to.” Her lips twist into half a smile. “After all, he doesn’t want to have to deal with _us_ again.”

If only that were true. They may have beaten Loki once, but Natasha knows that the odds of them doing so again are low. But she has to reassure Clint somehow. 

“Oh?” Clint’s tone is dangerous. “If that’s so, then why was he here in the first place?”

She doesn’t pause this time, either. “He took Tony.”

“He _took_ Tony?” Clint’s eyes fly wide and his voice rises as he steps away from the doorway. “Why didn’t you tell me right away? We’ll have to work together. I’ll give you my contacts, and you can put me in touch with your people. If Loki has Tony, we have to get him back. _Now_.”

The idea of giving Clint her contacts – the names, passcodes, and faces she’s worked so hard over the years to obtain – is frankly ludicrous. She won’t give up her assets simply because Clint is feeling desperate and scared. Besides, Loki is long gone. Natasha can feel it. She’ll be making inquiries to satisfy Fury. 

“No, don’t,” she says. “Fury has something else for you – said he’d call soon.” She shoves the last shirt into her bag and zips it closed. Shifting her hair from her face with a toss of her head, she looks at Clint. “Just wait. For a few days, long enough to figure out what Fury wants, and for everything to settle down. I’ll get in touch and pass along what I find.”

Clint’s face twists as Natasha moves past him. “A _few days_?” His tone is incredulous. “By then it will be too late! Loki will be long gone.”

Natasha pauses to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. She doesn’t need to tell Clint that Loki is already long gone, most likely. He’s already too late. They all are. 

“You need my contacts!” Clint hisses. “You need what I know; we can find Loki if we just work together.”

It’s enticing, but Clint is too riled, too irrational. She whirls to grasp his hand. He shifts out of range and she follows, dropping her bag and sliding low, coming up into Clint’s block and pulling him close. She moves her hand down, against his waist, and presses her cheek to his. He goes still. 

“Don’t be stupid,” she tells him calmly. “Just because I’m telling you to stay doesn’t mean you can’t make your own inquiries. On your own.” That’s how it’s always been, with them, and how it always will be.

She backs away, releasing him and spreading her hands wide. “I’ll talk to you soon,” she says, sending him a small smile and nod. Clint’s chin rises and his gaze narrows, so she turns from him, grabbing her bag and her case and leaving the apartment. She heads straight down the stairs and out the front door.

Clint will lock the door behind him when he leaves, but it doesn’t matter. She won’t be coming back. 

 

//

 

The benefits of flying into a major city like Istanbul far outweigh the risks, Clint has found. When thousands of passengers move in and out of a single building in a single day, it’s hard to find a single man. And no one expects a spy to fly coach. It’s the best, and simplest, disguise he’s ever used. 

Works like a charm. 

Clint shifts the backpack over his shoulder. He’s not carrying much, but he doesn’t need much. He’s going to find Loki, no matter what that takes, and bringing along bags with everything he might possibly need would be cumbersome. He’ll make do; he’s very good at improvisation. 

Balancing on the edge of the curb, Clint waves for a cab. None stop, but he doesn’t let himself get angry. He’ll save that for later, when he’s desperate. He pulls his phone out and glances at the screen. No calls. Fury is too late. He couldn’t catch Clint if her tried. 

For now, he’s going to ask nicely and make friends. He’ll keep his anger locked away. And when he gets his hands on Loki, he’ll let the beast loose. 

He’s sure that by then, it will be hungry. 

Grinning, Clint steps out into the street, and the few who glance his way and catch sight of his smile head hastily in the other direction. 

 

//

 

“Emmanuel!”

The man behind the card table starts bodily; his head jerks up and he stares, wide-eyed, in Clint’s direction. His lips part to soundlessly shape a word; then, he stands and smiles. Even from this distance, Clint can see the deep wrinkles around his eyes. 

“Jimmy,” the man says, his accent making mincemeat of the name. “Good to see you! It has been too long.”

Clint smiles back, ignoring the curious glances of the card players he doesn’t know, whose game has been so rudely interrupted – Clint doesn’t plan to let them go back to it anytime soon, either. 

“It’s good to see you, too,” Clint replies smoothly, his own accent straightened out a bit. “We need to talk.” Usually he has more finesse; he would ease himself into this kind of conversation rather than outright asking for answers. But this isn’t a time for ease and comfort. Right now, he needs to know where Loki is. And Tony, of course. 

Emmanuel nods, his gaze wary. He turns to the others and speaks rapidly in Turkish: “ _Get out, you sons of whores; you know I was winning anyway_.” Clint glances away to hide his smile. 

The men groan and gripe as they leave, but Emmanuel pays them no mind. He leans close to whisper in Clint’s ear: “Jimmy, what is this about? You in trouble?”

Clint shakes his head. “No, but a friend is. I need information.”

“Hm.” Emmanuel backs away and settles into his seat. “Information costs. What will you give?”

“Well,” Clint says, settling into a seat across the table, “money is no object. Or other assets. Whatever you want.”

Emmanuel’s gaze narrows. “You are a good friend, Jimmy Sharpe. You have always given what I asked. I do not like to doubt you. But these claims…” He gestures, the universal sign for _it cannot be helped_. 

Clint frowns. “I don’t go back on my word, you know that. What has you so nervous?”

Emmanuel shakes his head and lean forward. “I am always nervous,” he says. “It is what keeps me alive.” He pauses, lips twisting, and then says, “Besides, I hear things.”

Clint’s gaze turns sharp. “What kind of things?”

“I think you would like to know,” Emmanuel says through his satisfied smile. He pauses for a long moment, and Clint forces himself not to fidget. It’s harder than ever, without Natasha by his side judging him.

“I will make you a deal,” Emmanuel finally says. 

Brows rising, Clint asks, “What kind?”

“A good deal!” Emmanuel exclaims, gesturing. “I will make you an equal trade.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I will find you the information you want, and I will give it to you.” He pauses – for dramatic effect, Clint supposes. “And you will give me something equal in return.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Clint says slowly. 

“Ah! It is the easiest thing in the world! You will tell me what information you need, and why you need it. I will ask you to give me some of equal value in return. Is that suitable?”

So this will not be an exchange of money or valuables. No, Emmanuel wants something that could prove to be quite a bit more valuable. Clint considers what he has to lose. 

“Fine,” he agrees. “Do you remember the news out of New York a few months ago?”

Emmanuel leans back in his seat. “The attack? Everyone remembers that, Jimmy.”

Nodding sharply, Clint continues. “Yes, but do you remember who was behind the attack?”

“Now I feel as if I am taking a test,” Emmanuel says reprovingly. “I do not think this is the information you want.”

“No,” Clint says. “The attack on New York was led by an alien by the name of Loki; he seems human in all obvious ways.” It is the hidden ones – the _power_ , the manic desperation - that cause the most damage. “I have reason to believe that he may be hiding on Earth, rather than… back where he came from.” His mouth twists with displeasure. “I need you to find him for me.” 

Loki won’t have taken Tony in order to treat him well or pamper him. He will attempt to turn Tony, and if Clint knows anything about Loki, it’s that once he’s found a challenge to pick at, he’ll never give it up. They can’t afford a rogue Iron Man on their hands; Tony’s brilliance would be too easy to misuse. 

Emmanuel’s eyes have widened. “You ask much of me this time,” he says. “I have not searched for an… extraterrestrial before.”

Clint opens his mouth to tell Emmanuel that any price is acceptable; that no matter what he demands, Clint will find a way to pay him back. 

“But I do like this challenge.” Emmanuel’s satisfied grin widens. “So why do you search for this… Loki?”

This is it: here is the cost of knowledge. Clint doesn’t pause for a second before replying: “Revenge.”

Emmanuel nods. “This is good. I will get you what you wish to know. And in return, you will give me _my_ revenge.” Suddenly Emmanuel’s smile turns much colder, and Clint knows that he’ll be laying a life at this man’s feet very soon. 

 

//

 

She knocks on the street-facing door, icy rain falling around her, her cap pulled low over her face. 

“ _Hello?_ ” she calls in heavily-accented Russian. “ _Anyone there? I look for Nic._ ” Behind her, a car drives by, its tires sending up heavy splashes of water. Natasha shivers visibly and pulls her coat tighter. 

She knocks on the door again. “ _Hello?_ ” A curtain above twitches just slightly open and falls again. She knocks more insistently. 

As her fist falls a third time, the door wrenches open. Natasha stumbles forward and presses her hand again the opening. “ _Please help,_ ” she says, voice low and desperate. “ _Nic? I need see you._ ” She is speaking a foreign language, and badly, so that they will underestimate her. Which doesn’t mean that every word in Russian that she mangles doesn’t hurt.

The dark, rounded muzzle of a gun slides out the small opening. “ _Leave now,_ ” a gruff voice tells Natasha in Romanian. Obviously, she is unexpected. 

Sighing, she reaches up and presses the tip of her index finger under the gun’s barrel, shifting its aim up just slightly. “I don’t think so,” she mutters to herself, knowing when to give up. It’s too bad he hadn’t simply let her in. He had to be _cautious_. If he’d been foolish, he might have lived. 

But perhaps not. 

In a swift move, she kicks the door, jolting it back against the gunman. His finger tightens and the shot flies wild, way over her head, the small explosion searing the tip of her finger where it’s still pressed against the barrel. Sighing at the man’s incompetence, Natasha uses his flinching surprise to push him back further and wraps her hand fully around the gun. 

The man jerks back and the door opens wide, allowing Natasha inside. She kicks it closed behind her and swings low to knock the man’s knees out from under him. He falls hard, but not all the way. Swearing in fluid (and creative) Romanian that makes her half-smile, he finally releases his grasp on the gun and shifts, trying to grab Natasha and drag her down to his level. She skips to the side and kicks him in the side, forcing a whoosh of breath out of him. Then she shifts her grip on the gun and swings around, bringing it down butt-first, avoiding his sneering face and hitting him at the base of his skull. He crumples, his face slamming into the worn wooden floor. 

The entire encounter takes less than one minute. 

Natasha places the gun on a dust-covered side table as she walks out of the room and draws her own guns. They’re smaller: less weapons of brute force and more tools of enhanced diplomacy. She keeps them low and pauses, listening. 

Nothing. Not the sound of footsteps, or breathing, or the skitter of a rat. If the Ghenosu clan is here – and they better be, for the amount Natasha had had to pay for this location – they’re keeping low. Setting a trap. 

Good. It isn’t as if she’d _tried_ to keep her entry quiet. 

It only takes her five minutes to search the small house and find them. Once she does, she simply steps into the room, guns held low. The room is small, and the men inside are crowded for space. Some hold guns aimed at her heart and head, while others hold bats and bindings and clenched fists. 

One man is sitting in a chair at the center of the room; he watches her calmly with his hands knotted in his lap. 

“ _Who are you?_ ,” a tall, dark-haired man further back in the crowd demands. He moves forward, and his fists tighten, skin tightening around the thick metal of his rings. 

Natasha’s Romanian is not quite so smooth, but good enough. “ _You are Ghenosu?_ ” she asks the man sitting. 

Something sparks in the man’s eyes and his gaze slides down Natasha’s body, barely pausing at the sight of her twinned guns. 

“Yes,” he finally says. “We are Ghenosu.” He speaks in English. 

The Ghenosu is one of the most widespread clans – if not the most violent – in the Romanian mafia, with connections across the European underworld and beyond. If they do not know where Loki is, then he is not in Europe. Natasha will go to each continent until she is sure. Then she will return to Fury and perhaps, if her report is thorough, he will leave her alone.

“I do not want to kill you,” she tells the man. “I need information.”

One of the others surges forward, obviously remembering his schoolboy English lessons, calling her a dog, a whore. She kneecaps him before he takes two steps and he hits the floor hard. He _screams_. The others freeze, and she senses them readying for the attack. 

“Shall we take this somewhere more quiet?” she inquires calmly, with a ready smile. “I want to know about Loki.” It is an easy name to draw out – to balance on the tip of her tongue. 

Slowly, the man stands, his dark gaze drifting up to fix on hers. “That would bring me much pleasure,” he says. “We will drink together. And speak about…” As the pause draws out, she sees his hunger, his desire to make her pay for the damage she’s caused him and the clan. The _shame_.

Natasha turns her smile slow and hungry. 

“ _Yes. We will drink together. As did the oldest of civilizations,_ ” she says in Russian, and gives him one full moment to understand. 

 

//

 

Lagos is a city of screams and heat. Men crowd the streets in loose shirts and caps, swarming over abandoned train tracks and balancing enormous bags of lukewarm water on their head. The women’s fluttering garments are long and bright, and they flit through the crowds with dark-eyed ease. The buildings are short and the sky grey, crowded with the criss-cross of black wires and jutting towers of spindly steel. Cars crawl almost on top of each other through the streets and bodies press against the rolled-up windows, crying out their wares. Trash is _everywhere_ , it is a commodity, yet almost every face wears a proud, wild smile. It is an impossible city, which Clint has never learned to love. 

His taxi jumps and jolts as it eases through traffic. Clint glances down at the address on the paper that has crumpled and worn within his grip and wipes the sweat from his brow. 

Ebe Industries is a major name in Nigeria. So major that Emmanuel had hesitated before handing the information to Clint. He’d leaned close and whispered in Clint’s ear, “ _Be careful_ ,” before slipping the folded post-it into Clint’s hand and taking his own payment in return – a plastic bag containing two thumbs, freshly cut and evidence that in return for the means to his own vengeance, Clint had given Emmanuel the revenge he’d so desperately desired. 

Clint had taken his paper and left, only checking the words on it once he’d gotten three streets away and halfway down an alley. 

_Ebe Industries, Akabe Oni_ : place and name. 

Why Ebe Industries - world leader in unsavory technologies, environmental destructor in the name of production, and puppeteer of the greatest smuggling and criminal organization that Clint has had the pleasure of avoiding – would be involved with Loki is not a hard question to answer. When Loki came to them, suggesting an alliance, perhaps, or simply taking control at the highest level, they’d likely fallen to their knees in panting exhilaration.

Here it was, at last: a way to have the whole world under their thumb. No longer would Ebe be confined to working in Africa and Asia, but they could take on every challenge they encountered. They would spread their oily influence across the world. And they wouldn’t have to hide anymore, with Loki backing them. 

No, Ebe’s motivation is clear; the more disturbing question is: what is Loki’s?

Clint’s mouth twists with displeasure as the cab slides to a halt and he shoves the paper into his pocket. The driver twists, asking in nearly unintelligible English for payment. Clint digs the requisite naira from his pocket and hands the bills to the man, shoves the door open, and slides out, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. He stretches, shifting his shoulders, and the cab putters away. 

Here, the Lagosians ignore him. No one attempts to force bags of water or newspapers onto him like on other streets, and some of the tension begins to leave Clint. Groups of woman stride by swathed in bright fabrics, with tight looks on their face and hands on their bags. Men sidle by one-by-one, some in suits and others in shorts and worn shirts. All seemed filled with a dangerous confidence. Clint walks through these groups, keeping his head low and bag close, until he reaches the closest doorway. 

He steps under the lintel and leans to the side, glancing casually through his sunglasses at the tall building that sits across the street. It’s all worn concrete and fading paint. It doesn’t look like much, but the windows are clean and the men standing by the front doors are too well-muscled and stiff to be loitering. Guards, then, and fairly competent-looking ones. Ebe should try to find some less-conspicuous musclemen if they’re going to remain unnoticed by authorities. 

As Clint is trying to stay. He sighs and straightens, tugging at the hem of his shirt to unstick it from his body. He brushes his hand over his short hair and decides not to bother. He’ll have to try the back entrance. 

He cuts down an alley, skirting the piles of trash near the street and the sleeping bodies further back. He glances around, but doesn’t see Ebe Industries. Gone too far. He turns back and looks again until he spots another alley. It’s almost too thin for him to squeeze through, and Clint is forced to hold his bag at his side. Shirt clinging to the small of his back and sweat dripping down his forehead, Clint pushes himself along the crack in the wall until he can barely stand the feeling of the buildings pressing in against him. He stops, twisting as much as possible to peer in the direction he’s headed. There: he sees it, with its peeling paint and too-clean windows. Ebe is just half a building away. 

Clint glances around. The walls of Ebe Industries are smooth and the windows are barred. There isn’t a back door. Clint curses to himself and glances around, smacking his head against the building behind him when he looks up. 

Several feet above him is a trellis, old and rusted. It must have been put there before the adjacent buildings went up and all the sunlight. It’s tangled and caught up around an old drain spout that leads to the roof. That will have to work. It looks unsteady and like a very stupid idea, but Clint knows his own limits. He also has a failsafe. 

Clint wedges himself between the two walls so that he can put both hands into his backpack. It unzips easily, and he pulls out his bow and a single arrow, letting the bag drop. He maneuvers himself sideways again, and takes a deep breath. 

With a snap of the wrist, Clint’s bow unfolds. He aims for toward the gray sky between the buildings. This is definitely one of the more challenging positions he’s tried to shoot from, but not the worst, by far. 

The arrow flies with a twang, pulling a thin wire with it. It arcs up and then over, disappearing over the roof of the building. Clint hopes no one is up there. 

He manages to put everything away without dropping it, then tugs on the wire. It gives at first before holding fast. Clint takes it in one hand and prepares himself for the climb. Up to the rooftop, over the gap, and he’ll be on top of Ebe Industires. From there, getting inside to find this Akabe Oni will be the easiest thing he’s done all day. He takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Yes, all he has to do it get to the roof, and he’ll be home free. 

He promises himself that, braces his arms, and begins to climb. 

 

//

 

Natasha strides across the street and nods to the men standing by the door. One steps smoothly to the side and places himself in front of her. She glances up into his impassive face. 

“I’m here to see Akabe Oni,” she says, drawing a card from the pocket of her suit and holding it up. 

The guard barely glances at it before running his gaze over Natasha and her impeccably-fitted suit, sizing her up. “You American?” he asks. 

Natasha shakes her head and grimaces, flicking the edge of the card. “Dutch. Look again. I’m here to see Mr. Oni.”

The guard squints. “Natalje Kaan.” His frown deepens. “Okay, you go inside. Wait there.”

Natasha nods and offers the guard a small smile. She isn’t terribly worried; she called ahead to make an appointment with Oni last week, while the bloodied bodies of the Ghenosu clan were spread out on the floor in front of her. Her cover identity is sound. She plans to walk in, speak to Oni and perhaps offer some kind of payment, and walk out with yet another lead to Loki’s location. Not that Natasha expects him to be on Earth, but the point is that she’ll have some kind of news to send back to Fury. It shouldn’t be too hard to persuade the corrupt scion of a multinational corporation to work with her; likely, he’ll recognize her type from previous experience and ask for money up front. 

The guard pulls open the glass door to Ebe Industries and Natasha steps inside, the crisp air-conditioned air sweeping around her. There is no front desk inside, only a plain wall opposite, with elevator doors set into it. She glances around but doesn’t see the door to a stairwell, and frowns at the obvious fire hazard. They’ll all burn, one day. 

She waits, clicking the heels of her pumps on the tiled floor. The grout has chipped partially away between the squares, and for a moment, her heel sticks. She scowls and wrenches it free. 

“Ms. Kaan,” comes a deep voice, and Natasha looks up. She pastes on a surprised smile and steps forward, pulling her sunglasses off belatedly and reaching out to shake the suited man’s hand. His bearing is similar to that of the guards out front – self-assured and well-built – but with a hint more arrogance and slight lowering of his guard. 

“Mr. Oni?” Natasha asks, knowing full well that this isn’t him. 

“No, Ms. Kaan,” the man replies. “I am Uba Kunbi, Mr. Oni’s assistant. He is in a meeting right now, but he’ll be wrapping up shortly. I’ll take you up to his office.”

Natasha nods. “Of course. Thank you, Mr. Kunbi.”

Kunbi offers a broad smile and gestures towards the elevator. Natasha walks forward and steps inside, and Kunbi follows. The doors seal them together. They ride up in the silence, the ancient elevator jolting beneath their feet as it climbs. Natasha takes the scant moments to center herself.

 

//

 

Clint lands on the rooftop of Ebe Industries, body tucked into a forward roll that jars the wrist he cut on the climb up, and as he comes up to his feet his phone starts ringing. It’s an obnoxious rap song that Clint doesn’t even know the name of, blaring loudly from his pocket. He’d chosen it because it sounded the angriest of all the rap songs he’d listened to. Grimacing, he fishes the phone out and stares at it in disgust. 

It would probably make the situation worse to ignore the call. He backs up a few steps and crouches to keep himself out of sight. 

“Yes?” he answers. 

“ _Where the fuck are you?_ ” growls Fury on the other end. 

“Hiking,” Clint cheerfully replies. “Need me?”

“No,” Fury snaps. “I called to have a chat about the weather. Of _course_ I fucking need you. Why aren’t you in the city?”

“I’m hiking,” Clint says again. “Can’t very well do that in the city, can I?”

“You telling me you had a yearning for the outdoors, an unfulfilled itch inside you that could only be scratched by the scent of allergy-inducing air and the sound of a bubbling stream?” Fury’s tone is so mocking that Clint is forced to ignore him. “You found out that _Loki is back_ and decided to leave town? Pardon me if I don’t quite believe you.”

“What.” It isn’t a question, more like a demand. 

“I know you were with Romanoff four days ago. The night I sent her out to find Loki. She wouldn’t have kept that information from you. Twelve hours later, you were both gone. Mind telling me _what the fuck you think you’re doing?_ I need you here.”

Clint allows the silence to grow. “Fine,” he bites out finally. “I knew about Loki. And I was pissed. I shouldn’t have had to hear about it from her. I don’t know why _you_ didn’t call. Am I too close to this? Too _damaged_? Well? I needed some space. I’m in the Delaware Water Gap, Fury. Not exactly incommunicado.”

“You have reception in the Water Gap? Put me in touch with your carrier, Barton. I think not. You get your ass back here. I have a job for you; one I couldn’t put Romanoff on.”

“What is it?” Clint’s thighs ache from the crouch he’s been holding, but he doesn’t let himself stand just yet. He has to know whether to book it out of Africa and back to New York or whether he can ignore Fury’s orders this time. 

“Come back to New York,” Fury orders. 

Clint smiles to himself. “Not without good reason. I’m on my 20th mile; it’s a record. What’s the job?”

“Fine,” Fury snorts. “I need you to head over to Stark Industries.”

“Why?” Clint asks, frowning. “I can’t do anything to help there. I’m sure you have your best people on forensics and all that. What do you want me for?”

“You won’t be investigating. I need you in Stark’s labs. You need to get an Iron Man suit out of there before Potts shuts the whole place down. We only have a limited amount of time to do this.”

“Excuse me?” Clint resorts to politeness only when deeply surprised or extremely angry. This time, he happens to be both. 

“Stark has always been secretive with his inventions,” Fury says, enunciating as if Clint is deaf. “Potts will be no less so. I need you in there while the company is still shaken up. Potts will never know you were there.”

It’s galling to be called a sneak-thief despite all his experience, despite all he’s done for Fury. He’s been a guard, a hit man, and a spy. He’s never been asked to steal the crown jewels, though. It could be exciting, he reflects, but he knows Pepper – not well, but he’s met her a time or two, and always admired her strength and grace. He would have loved to recruit her, if it hadn’t been so obvious that she was madly in love with Tony. The unfulfilled do best in this business.

“There are others,” Clint says. “Ask one of them.”

“Yes. Thor put a nice dent in the top of Stark Tower the other day, Banner has holed himself up in his labs and sealed the doors, and Rogers isn’t exactly suited to dishonesty. You’re the only one. Clint,” Fury’s voice goes low, desperate in a threatening kind of way, “we need you.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Clint says. “But I’ll have to decline.”

There is a minute pause for Fury to gather his anger before he starts yelling. “It was not—” 

Clint swipes his finger over the End Call button and Fury cuts out. He pries the sim card out with his fingernails and snaps it in half. Straightening and groaning at the pain the movement causes, he leans over and drops the pieces over the street below. He shoves his phone away and forces his mind to focus. 

What had he been doing? 

Ah, yes. Ebe Industries, the company without a back door. It’s the first one Clint has seen. He walks across the rooftop and stops by the flat metal door set into the concrete beneath his feet. It lifts easily, and Clint smiles down into the darkness. Not even locked. 

It’s practically like being welcomed. 

He pulls his backpack around to his front, then drops through the hole and into the black below. 

 

//

 

The elevator slows and stops, and Mr. Kunbi steps out. “Just this way,” he says, and begins walking. He glances back over his shoulder; Natasha follows. 

The halls are concrete and glass, the floors laid in grey tile. Easy to clean, Natasha observes. She glances into the glass-walled offices as they walk by. Desks, computers, and a view of the next building. But no employees. Natasha wonders if they’re all in the ‘meeting’.

Ahead of her, Kunbi hisses and stumbles, and Natasha stiffens immediately. Her hand slips under the hem of her jacket and closes over one of her guns as the man falls to his knees. Natasha circles, keeping a wide berth and scanning the hall. 

Her gaze locks on a figure at the end of the hall, turned sideways and just lowering the arm he’d had extended. She watches his bow fold with a flick of his wrist as Kunbi sighs noisily and hits the floor hard. 

Well, that would explain it. 

Natasha lets her gun go and _moves_ , so pissed that she seriously considers shooting Clint for a second, despite the mess it would make and how difficult that would be to explain. 

Clint steps out of the shadows and smiles, the expression genuinely open and surprised. So he hasn’t followed her. That’s what surprises Natasha. He looks like hell: his black shirt ripped and torn in half-a-dozen places that Natasha can see, his face slicked with sweat and smudged by soot, and the palms of his hands red and torn. There is a sharp red line around one wrist that oozes blood. He’s obviously done something ill-considered and idiotic to get himself inside. And now he’s fucking Natasha’ plans to hell because he can’t be bothered to sit down and take a moment to cover his own ass. 

He knows she’s pissed; Natasha sees the sudden awareness flash through his eyes. He backs away and makes to open his bow again. She goes low, kicking for Clint’s legs. He moves with her and dances away, so she hurls herself forward, grasping him by the wrist. 

He breaks her hold, hissing, “Wait, I was only—”

She comes up, heel of her hand to his chin and he staggers. Natasha turns, going for his side to double him over, but he senses her and steps away again, and his only failure this time is his own blind idiocy, not to map the hall out in his mind before ever attempting to take Natasha on. He moves right into the concrete. 

As he flinches back, Natasha kicks high, pinning his wrist to the wall with her pump, the delicate skin wedged between the sole and slim heel of her shoe. Clint’s hand flexes, useless, around his bow. 

Natasha knows his next move, knows what he could do to get out of this. She also knows he won’t take the fight that far. He’d rather hear what she has to say. 

“You were only fucking my job,” she hisses, leaning close around her lifted leg. “Fucking it so hard it won’t have a chance to be salvaged. The Director gave this job to _me_. Not you. You’re too angry to do this.”

Clint’s eyes flash, darkly, and he snarls at her. “I can’t have fucked it too badly if we’re both in the same place.” He half-laughs, a small huff of breath, and leans his head back against the wall. “And besides, I already know that Loki isn’t here, and never has been. For all your fancy maneuvering and the time you spent mocking up IDs, I’ve done your job for you.”

“What?” Natasha grinds out. How did Clint get the info? She’s been quick and thorough, and yet this madman has it before her. Snarling, she steps back, loosing his wrist from the wall. 

He sighs and stretches his hand out. “Here,” he says. “Listen in.” He reaches up, pulls a small earpiece from his ear and holds it out. 

Natasha takes it and holds it up. Voices echo through it, and a sudden scream makes the reception fuzz out for a second. 

“Where did you put the bug?” she asks. 

Clint smiles and tilts his head. “Behind Oni’s lapel. I trust that’s a convenient enough location for you?”

Natasha’s gaze narrows and she nods shortly. How had he managed that? She slips the earpiece in and listens carefully, turning to keep the hall in her sights. 

“ _I don’t know, I don’t know!_ ” a man shrieks on the other end. 

“ _And yet I think you do._ ” The second voice is much closer to the bug Clint has planted, and infinitely calmer. There is a thud. 

“ _Ah! I’ve been telling you—_ ”

“ _That you haven’t seen Yinka or any of his associates for over a year. Yes, I know. And yet I don’t believe you._ ”

“ _Please, please…_ ” The voice has been reduced to a broken sobbing. Natasha can only too clearly imagine the gory details of the interrogation taking place in that meeting room. 

“ _You can stop this, you know. Just tell me where you and Yinka took the money._ ”

“ _I don’t—I can’t—_ ”

Natasha rips the earpiece out and flings it at Clint; he catches it easily. 

“He isn’t here,” she snarls. “Damn.”

Clint shoves the earpiece into a pocket. “Told you.”

Her grimace is unfeigned. “Shut it.” Clint is one of the few she grants her true emotions, as harsh and ungainly as they may be. “We need to—”

“Ah!” The shout comes from down the hall and echoes. Natasha narrows her eyes at the man standing over the assistant, Kunbi. He’s bent, feeling at the man’s neck. 

“As I was saying,” she tries again. “We need to leave. The bodies you’ve left behind are drawing attention.” 

Clint smiles, then laughs shortly. “All right, boss,” he drawls. “Whatever you say.”

He snaps his bow open once more, and Natasha sighs, reaching for her guns. 

 

//

 

Grinning, Clint falls back against the concrete wall; the stone has been shadowed for most of the day and feels wonderfully cool through his sweaty shirt. Natasha paces the alley, looking no worse for the wear than when he’d first seen her striding through Ebe Industries as if she owned the building. Perhaps, if he’d given her another half hour to work, she might have. 

“I have leads to follow up on,” she says, voice steady. “Go back to New York.”

Panting, Clint raises his brows at her. “And why would I do that?”

She frowns at him, genuinely confused as far as he can tell. “Because Fury has a job for you. I doubt it entailed sending you out here after me, so I assume you left without telling him.”

“Hmm. I may have hung up on him.”

A grin threatens to split Natasha’s façade. “Oh? Well, if you don’t get back to New York soon, Fury might go nuclear.”

“Well, then Stark’ll just have to—” He cuts himself off dead and swallows, mouth twisting. Natasha’s enthusiasm dies away as well. 

“Go back to New York,” she repeats. “Don’t follow me, do your job. I don’t need you fucking with mine again.” She strides towards the alley entrance, heels slamming into the ground. 

“I didn’t—”

“Four people died,” she says, turning neatly on her heel. “Today, they were all enemies: targets. Tomorrow, they might be civilians. If I’d been there alone, I would have been in and out before anyone noticed.” Her gaze rakes over Clint, and he half snarls in an attempt to swallow his anger. “I don’t like the way you work. It gets me into trouble.” He voice drops to a growl. “I don’t like trouble.”

_You don’t give a shit about the dead_ , he almost says, but that would be cruel. Not untrue, but he does try to avoid the touchy subjects. 

His silence gives her the opportunity she has been looking for, because in another instant she steps away and is gone, vanishing into the crowds pushing through the street. Clint lets his head fall back and hit the concrete, then slams his fist back. How _dare_ she say that about him? It was all lies, of course – she wanted him gone – but hard lies to listen to. He had fucked it up today, a bit. 

Well. Clint pushes off the wall and shifts his backpack up to his shoulder. No reason to let the mistakes of today become the regrets of tomorrow. Now he has to figure out where Natasha has gone.

 

//

 

She walks out of the shop with her hair pulled up tight on top of her head, wearing a flowing dress of Dutch-printed cotton. Heavy earrings pull her earlobes down. She feels Clint watching as she turns back to the shop and smiles, thanking the ladies for all their help. She even, as she turns, catches a glimpse of herself in the shop window. It’s amazing how, despite her brilliant red hair, Natasha can manage to look completely different with such a simple change of disguise. 

As she walks down the street, heads turn to follow her. Clint does the same, keeping back and cutting through alleyways when he can tell where she’s going. He seems to be trying for circumspection, staying far enough away that no one else will know he’s following. He listened that much, at least. She’d known he wouldn’t go back to New York, though that would have solved her problems. She can’t let Clint find Loki; they’ll need Loki _alive_ in order to find Tony, and Natasha doubts Clint would allow any such thing. 

It’s best for him to be otherwise occupied. 

Natasha turns to the hotel she’s been staying in and nods to the security guards out front. They smile back, wandering eyes taking in her outfit. She’d gone out in one very similar that morning, but had had to ditch it when she’d changed into the suit. Now, it looks like she spent the day shopping. Which sounds inane, but at least has the benefit of keeping most watchers disinterested. 

Stepping into the elevator, she pauses to wonder whether Clint is still following. He wouldn’t give up so easily, but he won’t be able to find her room without coming into the hotel itself – and that would give him away immediately. 

It doesn’t matter. She sighs internally. No matter where she goes, Clint will follow. He will trail her around the world five times, if that’s what it takes to find Loki. But he’ll also stay back, far enough away and working on his own.

For herself, she hopes to get that journey over quickly. She doubts she’ll find Loki, and all her instincts tell her that Tony is gone. They’re only human, after all. There is only so much that broken tools like she and Clint can do; she’ll leave the rest to others. The sooner she circles the world, the sooner she can get back to New York and breathe freely again. It seems like such a faraway goal, but it’s the only one she has. 

She’ll be heading to see the Ten Rings next, and she doubts they’ll be pleased to see her. She should keep such sentimental thoughts out of her head. She won’t need them for a while – the next few months, if not years, are going to be lonely ones. 

 

//

 

Humming smoothly, the plane leaves Africa. Clint watches the land vanish outside his small window, covered by clouds and falling far behind. Through gaps in fluffy whiteness, the sea glimmers darkly. 

He sighs and leans back. 

His shifting catches the attention of the woman next to him. She glances up from her magazine and eyes him suspiciously before looking back down. 

“Sorry,” Clint says, and stands. The woman forces a smile and stands as well, making room. He can feel her dislike as he shuffles out into the aisle. 

Natasha isn’t here in coach. She’s in first class. 

Clint lifts the heavy curtain dividing the sections of the plane and steps through. None of the flight attendants have noticed him yet, so he should be fine. The seats in first class are high-backed, so Clint moves slowly forward. He just wants… ah, there she is. 

He just wants to see her. 

Natasha is either sleeping or feigning the act well. She’s slumped in her seat and her bright curls fall across her face. The seat across the aisle is empty, so Clint settles down into it and watches her. 

The plane buzzes around him – the engines further back vibrating constantly, the murmur of passengers in coach and a movie muffled behind headphones providing white noise. He settles in and turns his head, running his gaze along the curve of Natasha’s cheek and the sweep of her eyelashes. 

Fury will be after him now. He’ll want Clint to do his dirty work, but Clint isn’t going to give in this time. He’s making his own decisions, finally. He’s going to find Loki, whether Tony’s still alive or not (doubtful). And if Loki has fled Earth, then that will just make the chase more exciting. The thought of his hand in Loki’s hair, the point of his arrow at Loki’s throat, draws and smile to his lips. 

A squeak; Clint glances up to see a flight attendant watching him with wide, startled eyes. When he meets her gaze, she flinches back and moves away. He looks back to Natasha. 

He’ll do all that, and Natasha will do the same. He won’t speak to her or contact her unless she asks. But they’ll work the same case, parallel lines wrapping up the world in neat red incisions.

Natasha shifts, and her curls slide across her cheek. She’s an arm’s length and a spoken name away from waking up. 

For a moment, it feels like they’re travelling together. 

 

//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, a disclaimer: I am not Nigerian, and all I know about Lagos comes from a movie I watched recently called _Lagos/Koolhaas_. I was struck by the amazing culture and structure of Lagos and immediately decided to use it in this fic. I tried to portray the city in its most striking ways, both good and bad. I hope I haven’t offended, and that certainly wasn’t my intention. The names in this chapter are Nigerian, but referenced from various disparate sources. I’ve probably used last names as first names and messed everything up, so I want to say again that I’m sorry, and I mean no offence. I created the names so that they sounded correctly Nigerian to my untrained ears, and for no other reason. 
> 
> Otherwise, I was greatly influenced in this chapter by pushdragon, the most amazing writer. I was beta-ing a truly brilliant story by her about a month ago, and that certainly influenced me while I wrote this. When she posts it, I’ll definitely be linking that here. 
> 
> This seems to be the story of relationships: the first chapter has two characters about to meet, this chapter has characters who can’t stop meeting, and the next chapter will have characters who will only meet through technology. So, who do you think they’ll be?


End file.
